You were my new inspiration
by TurtlebugBirdy
Summary: Loosely based on the musical Cabaret. Tobias, a struggling author determined to find his way in Berlin, bumps into Six, a rising Cabaret star at Dauntless. Set in the antebellum years of Weimar Germany prior to the death of Hindenburg and, inevitably, Hitler's rise as Fuhrer. Rated M for mature content. I own nothing.
1. Chapter 1

"**You were my new inspiration"**

**Summary: Loosely based on the musical **_**Cabaret**_**. Six, a new cabaret star at Dauntless, bumps into Tobias, a struggling author determined to find his way in Berlin. Set in the latter-years of Weimar Germany.**

Another indifferent day passes, and another meagre attempt to conquer my _wonderful_ writer's block has – unsurprisingly – failed again. I don't know why I still bother to maintain my ostentatious lifestyle here in Chicago; perhaps I'm trying to keep myself under the pretence that I am indeed Jay Gatsby and not, in fact, a struggling author with barely any cash in his pockets.

I take another sip of cheap, bitter larger to clear my thoughts – I'm no alcoholic, but an occasional drink always seemed to be able to make me form coherent thoughts on paper when I wrote my first book. Apparently, that magic spark that previously existed has now dissipated into nothingness … It only acts as a form of console in times of denial and trouble now.

My friend Zeke, a fellow writer, tells me to go look for extravagance in our constant stream of letters – he tells me that the best way out of a sticky situation is to go find something raucous to train your eyes at. He's never had any trouble with writer's block, at least not in my ten-odd years of knowing him; beautiful literature spews through from pen to paper simply by his touch – I don't know how he works his magic, and I'm constantly trying to get him to show me his tricks of the trade, especially after his first book, _Twice Over the Moon_. I eye it sitting innocently on my desk.

_"Once - now twice - I have fallen in love, twice has it ended in tatters. I use all my might to refrain myself from remembering that wave of euphoria every time her perfume lingered on my clothing because I do not want to keep my hopes up on an impossible girl a thousand leagues away when I am most certainly about to die in this hollow grave, this vile trench. No more am I grasping onto luxury; war has inevitably come and here I am, surrounded by the looming threat of the Allied Powers sending me to a painful death._

_Mister Thistle, a small needle of a man aged no more than twenty-five (and my neighbour), whimpers beside me - it is difficult to imagine that he voluntarily signed himself up in this game. But then again, he will have wanted to restore his family's pride, and he knows that it will all end by Christmas. By then, our field marshal had assured us - hand over heart - or even earlier. He sounded cocky and determined. Thank goodness, or we would all go crying back to our mothers."_

Of course, I am jealous.

Recently, he told me to go to Berlin with him on a trip to visit his brother, Uriah, there: _"Think about it – a perfectly scandalous city with beautiful men and women living sumptuous lives. Whilst I handle family business, you could go out to enjoy yourself and find an appropriate stimulus for your new book, eh? It all works out, and I'll even foot the bill - anything for a fellow author."_ He had told me.

I'll admit, I was - and still am - tempted, but I forced myself to push down those thoughts of selfishness and greed out of the way. Regardless of his generosity, I was completely broke. I didn't know any German. I had nowhere to go. And, even if I did choose to stay there after Zeke would leave, how could I pay for my basic living expenses via Rentenmark?

_But you could escape Chicago. Escape the _Devil.

I feel my feelings of greed return, and I shove them down again.

_Marcus Eaton. He could be gone for a month, or two. _

_No_, I shake my head; it's too dangerous in a foreign country, and I'd want to be sure that I'd at least be alright. Besides, Zeke is leaving in a few days' time – far too late for any arrangements to be made.

_Marcus Eaton._

I allow my thoughts to drift to my estranged father for once – I have always hated that man, especially after my mother passed on. He'd beat me, constantly, day after day after day after day after …

_Berlin._

Too unfamiliar for its own good … Yet somewhat safe for me to venture without having to worry about being beaten to death by a drunkard when he decides to visit me, like a "good father" should.

_It will welcome me with open arms._

_Willkommen_, Zeke had said prior to the announcement of his idea; he had a small homemade pamphlet in his hands, _to Berlin; a sparkling gem in the intriguingly foreign country of Germany; previously not a member of the League of Nations until the Locarno Treaties of 1926, but safe nonetheless._

Safe was the keyword in his sentence. Of course, he knows nothing of Marcus, other than the fact that him and I are estranged, but Zeke wouldn't know that that single word had made relief run through my body when I realised that there was, finally, a safe haven on this planet in which my father could not beat me. Again, my life wouldn't be as secure as it would be in America (not that it is, because it isn't) but regardless, I would finally feel at home and at peace knowing that the son-of-a-bitch that had frequented alcohol and a belt more than love would be across a vast ocean with no way of knowing where I would be.

And that seems to be the selling point for me as I begin to hastily grab my coat and run to tell Zeke that, yes - I have changed my mind.

I run to his apartment a few blocks away and knock impatiently at his door. When he finally opens it, I can tell that I've disturbed him judging from the prominent deep-set eye bags lining the skin around his eyes

"What the hell, Tobias," Zeke says, sluggishly. "It's a bit too early for a wake-up call considering I just fell asleep, don't you think? Sure, I love you and all that, but if you don't have a valid excuse for waking me up from my previously peaceful slumber, I will kick your ass so hard you'll end up on Coney Island. Speak quickly to save your own soul, mortal."

The grin doesn't leave my face when I tell him that there's been a change of plans on my end and that, yes – I'm actually going to Berlin with him. Heck, it even snaps Zeke out of his previously grumpy mood, and he welcomes me in to his apartment with open arms to discuss the situation further.

_Willkommen_, indeed_._

* * *

><p>The day has finally come for me to visit Berlin. Zeke is by my side, luggage in tow, as he passes our tickets to one of the sailors that will be taking us across the Atlantic. His eyes scan them quickly and he nods, thus deeming them valid, before letting us onto the boat that will take us to Calais for a layover then, finally, Antwerp.<p>

Zeke briefs me once we settle down into our room – he tells me that after Antwerp, we'll be taking a train to Dusseldorf before moving on to Berlin; a total of three-odd weeks of travel for us.

"Any more questions, Tobias?"

I shake my head; Zeke was clear and concise with his words and he's practically covered every single point that I've raised up.

He smiles. "Good. I guess I'll leave you explore the ship to see what we can do here; it's a tediously long journey, and I suppose you could potentially find some inspiration here …"

I sigh, his partial-innuendo speaking loud and clear as profanity would in an uncalled situation. This journey will be a long one, but – as cliché as it sounds – I look forward to it.

I'll do anything to escape the chains that Marcus Eaton has bound on me and write freely without any disruptions.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I don't own anything; the italicised lyrics are from the opening number _Willkommen _(from the musical _Cabaret_ which this story is based upon). Veronica Roth owns the characters. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>A man, his grin so wide it must surely be artificial, welcomes us to <em>Dauntless<em>. He is not wearing much at all, exposing the vast landscape of tattoos over his arms and torso, and his movements are slow and highly sexualised. He begins to sing softly, his voice surprisingly sweet:

"_Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome! Im cabaret, au cabaret, to cabaret." _

I honestly thought Zeke had lost his mind when the first job on our itinerary was to go see a cabaret performance at _Dauntless_, one of Berlin's most popular clubs, but he has – as I found out - good reason to go there; it turns out that's where Uriah works now, and it frightens me to imagine sweet, young Uriah standing in nothing but a pair of translucent leggings dancing his heart out in-the-round, the walls shimmering in vibrant colours.

Then again, he was always a little bit eccentric, and Broadway never truly fit his personality.

"_Meine Damen und Herren, Madames et Messieurs, Ladies and Gentlemen! Guden Abend, bon soir, We geht's? Comment ca va? Do you feel good? I bet you do!" _The man, or rather, _Emcee_ continues on comically as my eyes continue to adjust themselves to the constant change of brightness and colours.

_So this is Berlin - raw and unadulterated._

The Emcee continues on with his song, with more posterior-tapping and subtext dripping viscously from his words; I can tell that Zeke is particularly enjoying the performance and, admittedly, so am I – never in my life would I have ever imagined I'd enjoy such blatant displays of flirtatious and usually inappropriate behaviour in such a public setting; it makes me sound old-fashioned, I know, but I can feel myself lax into my wooden seat and continue to stare intently at the stage waiting for something _bigger_ to happen.

Then, suddenly, sparsely-dressed girls file silently onto the stage, and I see their eyes quickly scan through the wandering eyes of the predominantly male audience as if they are picking a target to bed by the end of the night. I feel my ears turn red at the heat of their intense gazes and the thought of … Intercourse. I steal a quick glance at Zeke to see his reaction to what he'd deem to be a "pleasant surprise". Sure enough, his eyes are completely trained onto the stage and – specifically - on an undeniably beautiful lady.

The Emcee parades 'round them one-by-one, introducing us to them in – like everything else in _Dauntless _– an overly-sexualised fashion. We find out that pretty-lady-that-is-the-apple-in-Zeke's-eye is called Shauna and that she too is, coincidentally, from America.

"_Yes, Shauna is from America! She's a cunning linguist."_ The Emcee practically purrs.

Zeke leans over to whisper in my ear. "Holy mother of God is she hot."

I roll my eyes and push Zeke away, a grin planted firmly on my lips. Completely-smitten Zeke is hilarious, no doubt about it. Knowing his determination, he'll try to get her number before this evening is over.

Zeke laughs. "Lighten up, Rock-like creature."

"_And now presenting the Dauntless boys! __Here they are – Peter! Drew! Or is it Drew! And Peter ... You know, there's only one way to find out,"_ He pauses for dramatic effect. _"I'll show you later."_ He winks at the audience and I let a small chuckle loose – such an innuendo can't go amiss, and I'm determined to prove that I can have fun.

"_Uriah!"_ The name catches Zeke's and my attention. Our mouths go agape when we see Uriah – like the _Emcee_, he is dressed in nothing but tight pants and suspenders that put particular emphasis on _that_ area. Like the girls, his eyes scan over the audience; the only differing factor is that he smirks when he sees us. He waves and blows us a kiss before strutting away. Zeke and I share a glance; despite the fact we were expecting him to look _different _when we arrived here, I think neither one of us was mentally prepared enough to _physically_ see him – skin and all – like that. I mean, we both saw that kid grow up careless and, for the most part, innocent – everything we've seen today shatters that façade we previously had, and the thought of innocents growing up so quickly scares me.

_At least he's happy_, I tell myself. Broadway is definitely far too tame for Uriah Pedrad; I can't imagine what it would be like if he was in _Sunny_, performing alongside Marilyn Miller.

Zeke reiterates my thoughts. "Holy shit ... I, uh, I had no idea. Mother would faint if she were here. And probably find enough holy water to bathe him for the rest of the year."

I nod, and we continue to watch the rest of the show in comfortable silence.

I am about to excuse myself when a petite figure enters the stage, her body thin yet strong. I find myself staring at the carefree expression molded onto her face, and then at her grey-blue eyes, and then at her lusciously long blonde hair. All I want to do is get to know her more; I don't know what draws me to her, but I cannot cast my eyes away.

I notice Zeke wave his hand in front of my eyes, chuckling. "Tobias Eaton completely smitten? Unheard of."

Again, I push him away. There's no denying that she's a striking beau; why should I deny myself the simple pleasure of looking at beautiful or striking people, especially since it is such a rare occurrence in this modern day and time?

"_- And finally, the toast of Mayfair, Fraulein Six!"_ The Emcee calls out, and Six waves to the audience. It, undoubtedly, must be a nickname; my mind wanders again, wondering why she chooses to go by a number and not her real name, whatever it is.

"_Hello, darlings!"_ She tells us, and her voice feels like it is the sweetest sound on earth; she's English – the "Mayfair" line gave it away – but the sound is unlike anything that I have heard of before: milk and honey gushing over jagged rocks.

The cabaret dancers then perform the rest of the number together, and my eyes are trained on Six the whole time. She's mesmerising, like the rest of her Cabaret counterparts, but I feel she's different though I can't quite put my finger on her defining characteristic. I have to know this girl for my own sanity as I fear that my mind will be plagued with her for the rest of this trip.

When they do finally finish their provocative number, I lean over to Zeke and whisper six simple words to him:

"I think I've found my inspiration."


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello again - I don't own _Cabaret_ or _Divergent_. ALSO - quick heads up: explicit mentions of intercourse and profanity are written in this chapter. Other than that, enjoy :)**

* * *

><p>"In my last correspondence with Uri," Zeke tells me. "He wrote that we were allowed backstage; '<em>immediate family<em> _perks_', he said."

"So you're actually going to go?" I ask him, and excitement builds up in my chest; there's that slim possibility that I get to see Six if I'm there and, ultimately, ask her questions for my new book.

Zeke rolls his eyes. "Of course I won't – I'm just going to journey back to Chicago tomorrow, y'know, waste the couple hundred bucks I used to get us both here,"

I put my hands above my head in retaliation, and Zeke grins.

"You don't have to come with me, but you probably will since _Six_ is there …"

I just get out of my chair before he can say anything else, and Zeke laughs in response before following suit. After asking, we walk towards a discreet velvet curtain and Zeke confidently pushes it aside before striding in – I look around first, fortunate to see that no one has really noticed us go in, as if they're indifferent to a couple of young men walk backstage to pay a visit to-

I immediately roll my eyes at my naïvetés; _of course _they're indifferent to us doing such a thing - men wandering in was probably a regular occurrence, and those that did notice must have thought that we were going to, uh …

I gulp, and quickly catch up to Zeke; I see him talking to one of the men – Peter, I think was his name – to what ask for Uriah.

"- So yeah; we – as in, my friend and I – need to see my _brother_." Zeke tells Peter, putting particular emphasis on the final word.

Peter eyes me with interest, smirking as he does so. "_Friend_, you say," He chuckles, and I can feel my ears burning red with embarrassment at his words and through his gaze. "But sure – I'll take you to Uriah's dressing room. Just be sure to clean up afterwards."

At this point, I wish nothing but to cower behind a rock and fade from the rest of humanity; even almighty Zeke is rather disturbed by Peter's words.

Peter leads us to the right, and we enter a narrow corridor of dressing rooms, each one identical to the next save for the name-tags and embellishments decorating each door – Uriah's room is the second one to the left, right next to a girl named Marlene; we hear inhuman sounds seep through the crack below her door, and I shift uneasily.

"Oh, get used to the sex," Peter uses the word so casually. "It's our background music and, as a heads up, the walls aren't exactly soundproof. Besides, I can imagine you'll add to the wonderful … soundtrack in a few minutes."

I can feel Zeke seething with rage and his words go dangerously quiet. "Uriah is my brother, not some plaything."

Peter shrugs, not noticing Zeke's difference in tone. "Family members come here too, and it's not just to say _'Guten Tag'_ –"

Zeke, in the blink of an eye, pins him to the wall. "Uriah is my brother. We are not interested in indulging in sexual intercourse with him today, or anyone for that matter. The fact that you think that we would do such a thing, despite the several times I have told you we were simply going to _visit_, is sickening so I suggest you get your head out of your ass and leave, okay?"

Peter blinks a few times before nodding furiously, and it is at this point Zeke lets go and allows him to run off.

"_Coward,_" Zeke mutters. "What a fucking coward."

I put a hand on his shoulder, and Zeke tenses up. "Relax. Peter _will not_ spoil your mood. He is only trying to wind you up, and the last thing you should do is let him win."

Zeke finally relaxes a little, exhaling sharply. Not saying a word, he knocks on his brother's door impatiently and Uriah answers promptly, thank goodness.

"_Mis amigos_," He tells us, his face plastered with a smile that reaches his ears; like Peter, he doesn't seem to notice his brother's anger. "How are you doing? Welcome to Berlin, the city of indulgence. This success is all thanks to good 'ol Stresemann and us 'Muricans … Do come in and settle down."

We follow Uriah into his room quickly and sit down on one the many chairs positioned around his room. He pours us both a shot of what I presume is whiskey, since that was what Uriah drank most back home, handing it to us both – we down the drink quickly, and I can feel the burn of alcohol slither down my throat; it's soothes me from today's extraordinary events. For a moment, we don't say anything to one another, instead downing another shot Uriah pours for us immediately after we finish our first one. I can tell he finally realises that we need it as he begins to chuckle before sitting down next to us.

"_Dauntless_ is a little overwhelming, I know. But I can assure you'll both get used to it in due time. However, I don't think it was anything to do with what you saw earlier, so _spill._"

Zeke shuts his eyes tightly. "It was Peter being a little bitch, insisting that we were here to fuck you after all the times I told him that we were just here to visit."

Uriah's eyes widen, and his makeup helps to exaggerate their size. "Do you have a death wish, brother dear? Peter's dad runs the place, so 'ol Pete can twist whatever happened so as to ask Max to make it living hell for you whenever you do decide to venture in."

"Max," I ask. "Who he?"

Uriah runs his hands through his gelled hair. "Chief of security – just to make sure nothing gets too out of control."

"Oh."

Silence consumes us again, and Uriah pours us another shot.

I gulp it down.

Zeke stares at the shot glass in his hands. "What a pussy Peter is."

Uriah laughs. "Indeed. I missed your snarky sense of humour, brother-mine."

"Love you too, bud," Zeke smiles. "Mother says hello, by the way."

"Send her my love."

"You should write more."

"What can I write about? She thinks I'm enjoying a pleasant career in cinematography, not an "outrageously sinful" cabaret act. What would she say if she saw me in these things? Heck, I can imagine her trying to bathe me in holy water if she decides to pay a visit," Uriah gestures towards his provocative outfit and to the rest of his wardrobe hanging on a rusted rack; all of his clothing looks the same, and I can imagine that they all accentuate certain areas of his body like his current outwear does. Indeed, Hana – his and Zeke's mother - wouldn't be pleased. "She wouldn't understand that this ... _This_ being the only thing that makes me happy, not some mundane job on Wall Street dealing with stock."

Zeke meets his brother's eyes. "I'm sorry. We just miss you so much, especially Mother since she doesn't hear from you as often. Chicago isn't the same without your bubble of happiness."

Uriah doesn't meet his brother's eyes, instead just opening his arms wide, and Zeke embraces him tightly; I can see tears running down Uriah's cheeks, making them glisten. I feel out of place; I am no Pedrad, nor do I claim to be one, and the fact that the only member of my family left alive is Marcus Eaton makes me feel so alone in this world – heck, I haven't had a guiding figure to look up to my whole life.

They pull away, with Uriah wiping off any makeup that has run down his face as he sniffles. Zeke hastily wipes his tears and looks at me guiltily. "Sorry bud. I mean, I'm not insensitive by shoving my family -"

I interrupt him. "It's fine – no need to apologise for embracing; you haven't seen each other in a long time." Again, we sit in silence.

Another shot gets downed soon afterwards, and I'm starting to feel tipsy.

"Uri, darling, would you happen to –" A female voice interrupts us behind me, and Uriah immediately gets up from his seat.

"Six," He says, and that very name sends a cool shiver down my spine. "It's fine – come in."

Uriah guides Six to his seat, before pulling out another chair and setting it down next to me. Like he did to us, he pours her a shot and she accepts it gratefully, downing it before eyeing us suspiciously. Her eyes bore into mine, and I retaliate before she looks away quickly.

Uriah clears his throat. "Everybody – this is Six. Six, this is my brother Zeke and his friend Tobias. They're authors visiting from Chicago." He gestures to us separately when he says our names.

I hold out my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Six." Her eyes dart from my hand to my face numerous times before she finally shakes it, and the contact makes every cell in my body tingle.

"No. The pleasure is mine, _Tobias_."

Never has my name sounded so sinful.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews appreciated (especially since this author really needs to improve her writing :P)<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello hello lovely people :)**

**Apologies for not updating sooner - I am up to my neck in revision books for my mock exams that are coming up in January, thus meaning that I'll have to put this story on hiatus until late Jan/early Feb. Either way, I hope you enjoy it and, as usual, I don't own any of the characters nor _Cabaret._**

**Enjoy :D - C**

* * *

><p>The promise of good drinks is, as Uriah assures us, in safe hands and that we should trust him to deliver the best <em>Prairie Oysters<em> in all of Berlin. Winking at me, he decides upon needing an assistant to help win us over, forcibly dragging Zeke behind a curtain to his bar, apparently a small and claustrophobic closet lacking décor but - quite literally - not substance.

Evidently, it was a ruse for Six and I to begin socialising – she notices this too, and we both sit in an uncomfortably stuffy silence, her staring intently at her fingernails and me toying with the rim of my black-and-grey fedora. Eventually, I feel her eyes boring holes into the side of my head, and I wait for her to say something, the silence agonizingly painful and awkward; there is so much I want to ask and say to this girl, but the words cannot come out of my mouth.

"Mr. Eaton … Err, _Tobias_, whatbringsyoutoBerlinandDauntlessand-" Upon realising the rushed nature of her words, she clears her throat, pausing for breath and blushing. "What brings you to Berlin?"

I shrug despite the fact my heart races a little – she's somewhat interested in who I am. "Inspiration for my new book – writer's block is a horridly tedious sort of thing I encounter …" I trail off, not knowing what else to say.

She nods and, as if throwing all caution to the wind, breaks through the ice between us in one breath.

"Look, I know this sounds odd and all that, especially considering my career as a Cabaret artist, but would you like to come over to my place at some point? Like, it isn't for any sexual favours and whatnot but you're a rather interesting fellow that I would love to know more about; not many authors stumble to Berlin in search of something to write about … Yeah. I would like to know more about this mysterious Tobias Eaton sitting beside me."

My heart stops for a second; she wishes to learn more about me, a poor, starving author whom was relentlessly beaten by his own father throughout his childhood? Me, a talentless man whom solely relies on alcoholic drinks to make words flow onto paper? Me, a virgin? And despite all of this, my drink addled brain says yes before I can rationalise the decision that my mouth has made, and my heart pounds more at the thought of leaping into the unexpected with a beau by my side.

I see her face brighten up, filling me with strange emotions of woozy-headed and giddy joy. It can't be love, however - I'm certain it isn't; those months with Nita a year ago, that wonderful and often euphoric time with the curvy and full-lipped girl was love – an innocent and somewhat childlike love. A dancer in what she called the beginnings of a 'Harlem Renaissance', I let her give me my first – and only - kiss in the safety of her home when I travelled up to New York on my usual weekend endeavours to Broadway, the same place I had met her months and months beforehand:

"_Tobias … Relationships between you and me - a coloured person - are illegal_," she had told me, staring deep into my eyes that were almost certainly filled with lust a week after the event. "_This is bad, really bad." _She quickly began to walk away, hugging her dressing gown around her.

I pulled her close again, catching her by her wrist, taking in her scent of tobacco and perfume and telling her that no one would have to know – no one needed to know. Besides, the Pedrads and I were close friends, with no one questioning our bond.

She shook her head, smiling, tears trickling down. _"Tobias, my love – we need to let each other go. Do you want to be tried and kicked out of your own home? The entire cast is already suspicious of us, of you, and I do not want to see us both inside of cells – the past few months as your friend and lover have been brilliant, I assure you, but,"_ she pushed my coat and shoes into my hands before opening her door quickly. _"Forget about me. Leave the trouble behind."_

I couldn't reply before my first love – a paranoid yet lovable woman – ended our relationship through the bone-chilling slamming of a door. That was the last weekend I had travelled to New York, and the last time I swore I would allow myself to fall in madly in love.

And yet a similar and unavoidable feeling was building up within my chest – a familiar ache for someone I barely knew …

I tune out of the conversation Six, Uriah and Zeke have upon the return of the latter two soon after I say yes to Six's proposal, _Prairie Oysters_ sitting delicately in shot-glasses on a silver tray brought. Of course, I get handed one, downing the concoction without knowledge as to what it contains. It is vile, of course, but I swallow it as if it were medicine, not gagging once.

"- The secret to this wonderful concoction," Uriah laughs, and I pay attention for the first time in what has felt like hours. "Is to balance the amount of Worcestershire sauce and raw egg – you don't want to be drinking a mouthful of just egg, after all!" Six laughs with him as Zeke turns green, grave errors realised.

As for me, I just choose to enjoy the company of the people around me, only smiling on occasion at the snarky remarks made that night.

Eventually, we did leave _Dauntless_ and through the hazy fog of my hangover and its familiarly irritating pang at the back of my head, I wonder what life would be like had I decided upon staying tucked away in the suburbs of Chicago.

Perhaps I would have eventually settled in New York. Not for Juanita, no – I felt no emotion other than longing for what could have been; it had been a year for goodness sake.

Six, on the other hand … Heck, I barely knew her name, much less anything else. And yet I was certain there was something between us, something brewing behind the scenes, her timid and mysterious nature only drawing me closer.

It couldn't have been love, not after a couple of hours.

I never believed in such superficial clichés anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews, follows and favourites appreciated.<strong>


End file.
